POEMS. 


BY 


MRS.    MARCIA    JANE    EATON 


Printed,    not  Published. 


BALTIMORE: 

STEAM  PRESS   OF  WM.   K.    BOYLE  &    SON. 
'  1876. 


CONTENTS. 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 

My   Childhood's  Home... I 

Dedication  for  a  Sister's  Album 3 

I'm  Sitting  in   the  Moonlight 4 

For  a   Friend's  Album 7 

My  Namesake 8 

A  Mother's   Birth-Day   Gift >o 

Glen- Echo   Home 13 

My  Husband's    Birth-Day 15 

The  Sister's   Death 17 

Little  Luna 18 

The    Tivin   Pines 20 

Dormie  Darling 23 

Valedictory  to  a   Cooking   Sto-ve 25 

The  Silver    Wedding 27 

The  Little  Empty  Carriage 29 

RELIGIOUS 

Taught  of   God , 32 

The  Dying   Wife 34 

Is  it  -well  -with  the   Child? .^...36 

Gra-vcs 38 

"0»   our  -way,  Sorroiuing" y 40 

Christmas  Hymn 4' 

Dedication  Hymn 42 

Another 43 

Song  of  the   Heart-Sick 44 

Trust  45 

PATRIOTIC. 

Poem  for   Independence  Day 47 

My  Soldier-Son 49 

When   my   Boy  comes  back 53 

Dirge  for  a    Young  Soldier 55 

The   Old  Blue   Coat 56 

Fort  Sumter 58 

The  Patriot   Martyr 60 


COMPILER'S    PREFACE. 

rPHIS  little  volume  of  Poems  is  printed  by  consent  of  the  Authoress, 
first  solicited  and  obtained,  for  distribution  amongst  her  numerous 
friends  and  relatives,  as  also  those  of  the  Compiler;  to  all  of  whom 
it  may  literally  be  said,  to  be  DEDICATED,  and  by  whom  it  is  confi- 
dently believed  it  will  be  received  and  read  with  high  gratification, 
and  preserved  with  religious  care. 

As  Mrs.  Eaton  is  quite  as  well  known  to  most  of  the  recipients  of 
this  book  as  to  the  writer,  any  explanation  of  the  circumstances  under 
which  the  poems  were  produced,  the  animus  prompting,  or  intent  in 
writing,  is  deemed  superfluous ;  in  fact,  each  poem  tells  its  own  story, 
and,  together,  they  clearly  evince  the  high  character  and  noble  inner 
life  of  the  Authoress. 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


MY    CHILDHOOD'S    HOME. 

MY  childhood's  home  !    my  childhood's  home 
The  cottage  'neath  the  hill, 
With  all  its  pleasant  memories. 

Methinks  I  see  it  still. 
I  see  it  in  the  midnight  hour, 

When  sleep  profound  doth  reign 
Through  all  the  world,  I  live  in  dreams 
My  childhood  o'er  again. 

Again  I  hear  the  cheerful  call 

And  join  the  happy  throng, 
And  play  the  unforgotten  games, 

Or  sing  the  merry  song — 
And  in  each  shout  of  joyous  mirth, 

Each  well-remembered  tone, 
I  list  the  thrilling  music  heard 

In  childhood's  voice  alone. 

And  childish  griefs  come  stealing  up 

Before  my  memory  now, 
Which  vanished  when  my  mother's  hand 

Lay  gently  on  my  brow, 


My  Childhood's  Home. 

And  when  my  father's  glance  of  love 

Fell  kindly  on  my  own, 
My  heart  beat  high  with  joyousness, 

And  all  my  sorrow  gone. 

My  father !    'twas  no  common  love, 

That  bound  my  heart  to  thee — 
My  father !    thou  art  ever  shrined 

Deep  in  my  memory — 
My  childhood's  idol !    oh  how  oft 

I've  called  thee  back  in  vain — 
How  could  I  bear  to  think    that  we 

Should  never  meet  again  ? 

And  thou  my  suffering  mother  too 

Hast  bowed  at  Death's  behest, 
And  followed  to  that  heaven,  where 

The  weary  are  at  rest. 
Now  re-united,  both  within 

That  happy  spirit  land, 
Say,  do  you  with  parental  love 

Watch  o'er  your  orphaned  band? 

Guardians  of  my  unconscious  years  ! 

Still  be  your  vigils  kept 
O'er  me,  your  wayward  child,  as  when 

In  infancy  I  slept. 


Dedication  for  a  Sister 's  Album. 

Still  let  me  breathe  in  childish  trust 
Each  sorrow  and  each  fear, 

And  still  live  o'er  those  happy  hours 
To  memory  ever  dear. 


DEDICATION   FOR   A    SISTER'S   ALBUM. 

SISTER,  a  precious  gift  I  bring, 
Oh  deem  it  not  a  worthless  thing, 
Nor  careless  glance  its  pages  o'er — 
For  many  sweets  it  holds  in  store, 
When  youth's  gay  scenes  shall  be  no  more. 

What  though  the  page  is  spotless  white, 
And  leaves  no  impress  on  the  sight; 
As  years  shall  roll,  it  still  may  be 
A  priceless  jewel  unto  thee, 
A  star  of  joy  o'er  life's  dark  sea. 

For  friendship  here  shall  love  to  bring 
Her  brightest,  purest  offering, 
And  many  a  name  recorded  here, 
Shall  have  its  mission,  oh  how  dear, 
Thy  life  to  bless,  thy  path  way  cheer. 


I'm  Sitting  in  the  Moonlight. 

To  virtue,  plant  of  heavenly  birth, 
To  friendship,  rarest  gem  of  earth, 
Devote  this  little  book  of  thine — 
So  shall  sweet  memories  combine 
A  wreath  around  thy  heart  to  twine. 

And  when  loved  forms  and  voices  sweet, 
At  memory's  bidding  come  to  greet, 
Recall  to  mind  thy  sister-friend, 
Whose  hopeful  prayers  for  thee  ascend, 
Whose  love  for  thee  shall  never  end. 


I'M   SITTING   IN  THE   MOONLIGHT. 

I'M   sitting    in   the   moonlight 
That   streams   across   the   floor. 
And   calling   back   the   early  days 

Which    may   return   no   more. 
A    merry   childish   group   springs   up 

Before   my   mental    eye, 
Whose   streaming  curls   and   dancing   eyes 

Gleam    'neath   the   moonlit   sky; 
And   well-remembered    voices   now 

Their   echoes   round    me    fling, 
Like   strains    of  softest    melody, 

Most   dear   when    vanishing. 
And  joyous   shouts,    and    bounding    feet, 

And    laughter   clear   and   wild, 


I'm  Sitting  in  the  Moonlight. 

Are   present   in   my   memory 

As   when   I   was   a   child — 
And    my    heart   goes   back   with   longing, 

To    those   careless   days   of  yore, 
As   I   sit    within    the   moonlight 

That   streams   across   the   floor. 

I'm   sitting   in    the   moonlight 

That   streams  across   the   floor, 
And    thinking   of  the    flowers   that   strew 

My   later   pathway   o'er. 
Oh    deem    not,    that    with   early   years 

Life's   beauty   all   hath   passed ; 
The   advancing   sun   sheds   brighter   beams 

Than   those   his   rising   cast. 
The   swelling   fruit    or   opening    flower 

Were   but   of  little   worth, 
Bereft   of  ripening   noonday   warmth, 

To    bring   their   sweetness    forth ; 
So   happiness,    that   plant   divine, 

As   still   our   years   increase, 
Is   ripened   by   the   gentle    rays 

That   flow   from    inward   peace; 
While   love,    the   gift   conferred   by   God, 

Which   brings   us   nearest    heaven, 
In    richest     purest   radiance 

To   years   mature    is   given. 


S'm  Sitting  in  the  Moonlight. 

And    I    mourn    no    more    for   all    the    joys 

Lost   childhood    might   restore, 
As    I   sit    within    the   moonlight 

That   streams   across   the    floor. 

I'm   sitting    in   the   moonlight 

That   streams   across   the   floor, 
And   dreaming   of  the   dearly-loved 

Upon    the   peaceful   shore. 
In    that   sweet   haven    of  repose, 

Does   memory   e'er   turn    back 
To   us,    blind,    groping   wanderers 

Upon    life's   darkened    track  ? 
And    'mid    the  joyous   songs   of  praise, 

That   fill    the   heavenly   dome, 
Heed    they   the   broken    strains   that    rise 

Within    their   earlier   home? 
Ah,    well   they   loved   us    once,    and    through 

The    yearning   love   we   feel, 
Which   time   and    death   cannot   efface, 

We   know   they   love   us   still; 
And   when    our   bark   at  last    is    launched 

On    that    dark   river's   tide, 
Their   faithful   hearts   will   welcome   us, 

Their   loving   arms   will   guide ; 
And   sure   the   heavenly   life   itself 

Will  seem   more   deeply   blest, 
While   greeting   those   we   left    in    tears, 

When    entering    into  rest. 


For  a  Friend' 's  Album. 

Oh    happy   thoughts !    oh   glorious   dreams ! 

They   haunt    me   evermore, 
As    I   sit   within    the   moonlight 

That    streams   across   the    floor. 


FOR   A    FRIEND'S   ALBUM. 

WHAT  is  an  Album's  use?"    quoth  I, 
When  lo,  a  little  sprite 
Hovering  near  'twixt  earth  and  sky, 

At  hearing,  laughed  outright — 
And  turning,  whirling,  down  he  flew 

Quite  near  my  puzzled  face, 
••An  Album's  use?     I  thought  you  knew 
'Tis  folly's  resting  place. 

"Just  compliment  the  lady  fair 

Upon  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Her  dimpled  cheeks  and  glossy  hair, 

She'll  think  you  wondrous  wise, 
Possessed  of  strong  discerning  power 

Such  beauties  to  perceive, 
Where  none  but  she  had  e'er  before 

Their  presence  dared  believe." 


My  Namesake, 

"Not  so,"  exclaimed  a  gentle  voice, 

As  there  appeared  in  sight 
A  form  to  make  the  heart  rejoice, 

So  glorious  was  its  light — 
"My  name  is  Friendship," — at  the  word 

Bewitchingly  serene, 
The  sprite,  Gay  Satire,  disappeared, 
And  purer  seemed  the  scene. 

"An  Album's  use  let  me  now  give," 

The  beauteous  image  said, 
"it  brings  together  hearts  that  live, 

And  calls  to  life  the  dead — 
Upon  the  dark  and  troubled  earth 

It  sendeth  many  a  ray, 
So  call  it  not  of  little  worth 
Nor  cast  it  quite  away." 


MY   NAMESAKE. 

I  HAVE  a  little  namesake, 
So  full  of  joyous  glee, 
There's  not  a  child  the  wide  world  o'er 

More  dearly  loved  than  she — 
So  idolized  by  many  hearts, 

More  prized  than  wealth  untold, 
My  playful  little  namesake 
Of  scarcely  two  years  old. 


My  Namesake. 

My  baby-bird,  my  namesake, 

Months  many  have  flown  by, 
Since  last  I  looked  the  depths  within 

Of  thy  clear  earnest  eye, 
And  saw  the  dawning  intellect 

On  infant  brow  enrolled  ; 
My  precious  little  namesake 

Of  scarcely  two  years  old. 

My  winsome  fairy  namesake, 

Endowed  with  rarest  grace, 
Methought  I  saw  an  angel's  charms 

While  gazing  in  thy  face ; 
Or  watching  with  admiring  eye 

Thy  form  of  beauty's  mould  ; 
My  lovely  little  namesake 

Of  scarcely  two  years  old. 

Thy  silvery  voice,  my  namesake, 

Dearer  than  music's  tone, 
Comes  sweetly  as  a  dream  to  those 

Who  claim  thee  for  their  own — 
Who  love  thee  with  enduring  love, 

With  hearts  that  ne'er  grow  cold, 
My  happy,  petted  namesake 

Of  scarcely  two  years  old. 


io  A  Mother 's  Birth-Day   Gift. 

And  yet,  my  little  namesake, 

All  charming  as  thou  art, 
Thou  need'st  a  heavenly  power  to  keep 

The  beauty  of  the  heart', 
This  only  boon  I  ask   for  thee, 

Treasure  more  worth  than  gold, 
My  radiant  little  namesake 

Of  scarcely  two  years   old. 

God  grant  my  little  namesake 

To  walk  her  path  in  life, 
Calm  and  unsullied,  through  the  storms 

Of  sorrow,  sin  and  strife ; 
His  guardian  care  be  over  her, 

His  mighty  love  enfold 
My  little  darling  namesake 

Of  scarcely  two  years  old. 


A    MOTHER'S   BIRTH-DAY    GIFT. 

I  MIND  me  of  a  time,  my  boys, 
A  pleasant  time  to  me — 
When  you  were  infants  in  my  arms 

And  sat  upon  my  knee. 
I  watched  you  in  your  merry  play, 

I  watched  you  in  your  sleep, 
And  feared  that  time  would  but  destroy 
My  happiness  so  -deep. 


A  Mother's  Birth- Day  Gift.  n 

But  each  successive  year  that's  past 

Has  left  in  you  its  sign, 
And  now  the  eldest  numbers  ten, 

The  other  nearly  nine — 
And  yet  I  know  not  which  to  choose, 

The  infant  or  the  boy 
With  open  brow  and  laughing  eye, 

Fearless  and  full  of  joy. 

Ye' re  very  dear  to  me,  my  boys, 

Ye' re  very  dear  to  me, 
There's  nought  so  precious  to  my  heart 

As  my  home  treasures  be ; 
And  I  can  cast  all  else  aside, 

And  with  Rome's  matron  say, 
"These  are  my  jewels,"  these  alone — 

God  keep  them  bright  alway  ! 

I  would  into  the  future  look, 

And  see  you  grown  as  men — 
Your  childhood's  sorrows,  childhood's  joys 

Will  ne'er  return  again ; 
But  though  earth's  honors  on  you  wait, 

And  wealth  may  be  your  own, 
You'll  look  back  on  these  happy  days 

And  sigh  that  they  are  gone. 


J2  A  Mother's  Birth- Day  Gift. 

And  when  the  dark  hour  comes,  my  boys, 

As  it  comes  to  all  below, 
And  all  earth's  pleasant  voices  change 

To  sadd'ning  tones  of  woe, 
And  the  fervent  wish  finds  utterance, 

From  deep  within  your  breast, 
"Oh  for  dove's  wings  that  I  might  flee 

Away  and  be  at  rest— 


In  that  dark  hour  your  mother's  love 

Will  burn  a  living  flame, 
Her  prayers  will  rise,  her  hopes  be  strong, 

Her  heart  be  aye  the  same — 
Her  arms  that  never  yet  repell'd 

Will  open  wide  for  ye, 
Her  eye  can  ne'er  look  coldly  on 

Her  children's  agony. 


Then  trust  her  changeless  love,  my  boys, 

And  as  ye  feel  its  rays 
Fall  gently  on  ye,  think  of  Him 

To  whom  is  due  all  praise — 
Who  all  our  pleasures,  all  our  joys, 

Our  very  life  hath  given — 
Whose  wisdom  e'en  our  sorrows  guides, 

And  fitteth  us  for  Heaven. 


Glen- Echo  Home.  13 

God's  blessing  rest  upon  ye  both, 

My  merry-hearted  sons, 
And  by  His  Spirit  may  ye  say, 

"Our  Father's  will  be  done" — 
And  be  our  lot  through  weal  or  woe 

While  here  on  earth  we  roam, 
We'll  be  a  happy  family 

When  Christ  shall  lead  us  home. 


GLEN-ECHO   HOME. 

I'M  thinking  of  a  cottage 
In  a  green  and  quiet  dell, 
lte  .etone  brown  walls  and  lowly  roof 

Encircled  by  a  spell; 
Of  the  porch  wherein  we  sat  to  watch 

The  evening's  gathering  gloom, 
Of  the  woodbine  o'er  the  cottage  door, 
Of  our  Glen-Echo  Home. 

I'm  listening  to  the  murmur 

Of  the  lovely  little  stream, 
That  dances  smilingly  to  meet 

The  sun's  caressing  beam — 
The  stream  upon  whose  grassy  banks 

We  loved  so  well    to  roam, 
Discerning  nature's  freshest   charms 

In  our  Glen-Echo  Home. 


14  Glen- Echo  Home. 

I'm  longing  for  the  wild  birds, 

That  earliest  came  in  spring, 
And  on  the  pure  sweet  air  trilled  forth 

Their  richest  offering — 
Ah,  nought  of  music  can  compare, 

In  hall  or  lofty  dome, 
With  the  sweet  wild  birds'  singing  there, 

In  our  Glen-Echo  Home. 


I'm  picturing  the  home-charm 

Of  garden,  field  and  tree, 
Which,  though  a  stranger  heeds  it  not, 

Makes  paradise  to  me  ; 
The  sun  elsewhere  shines  not  so  bright, 

No  flowers  so  sweetly  bloom, 
As  those  which  toiling  hands  invite, 

Round  our  Glen-Echo  Home. 


I'm  dreaming  of  the  future, 

When  all  our  wand'rings  o'er, 
We'll  turn  with  gladsome  steps,  to  greet 

Our  cottage  home  once  more — 
Allured  by  memory's  softest  voice, 

With  loving   hearts  we'll  come, 
And  gather  'neath  the  sheltering  roof 

Of  our  Glen-Echo  Home. 


My  Husband's  Birth-Day,  15 


MY   HUSBAND'S    BIRTH-DAY. 

THE  robin's  song,  this  April  morn, 
The  sunshine  on  each  glistening  tree, 
The  healing  on  spring  breezes  borne, 
Remind  my  lonely  heart  of  thee  ; 
Does  the   bird's  song  awake  such  thought 

In  thee,  though  far  from  home  away? 
Is  the  spring  breeze  with  blessing  fraught 
For  thee,  on  this  thy  natal  day? 

The  birth-day !  comes  not  now  that  sound 

So  full  of  hope  as  when  of  yore 
Youth's  pulses  leaped  with  joyful  bound, 

And  life,  whose  untried  scenes  glanced  o'er, 
Seemed  filled  with  love  and  beauty  all, 

So  heavenly  radiant  to  the  sight, 
Without  one  shadowy  cloud  to  pall 

The  heart-loved  fancy  and  delight. 

But  though  past  are  our  youthful  years, 

And  middle  age  around  us  throws 
The  weight  of  toil,  of  cares  and  fears, 

Rich  are  the  treasures  she  bestows  — 
True  love,  which  sweetens  care  and  toil; 

Children,  round  whom  our  full  hearts  twine; 
A  trust  in  God  whate'er  befall, 

These  are  our  blessings — thine  and  mine. 


16  My  Husband's  Birth-Day. 

With  these,  our  cottage  home  shines  bright 

As  ever  youthful  fancy  burned ; 
With  these,  advancing  years  grow  light, 

As  toward  the  close  the  eye  is  turned ; 
With  these,  as  birth-days  come  and  fly, 

We'll  meet  their  dawning  with  a  smile, 
Nor  give  one  backward  look  and  sigh 

For  unreturning  joys  the  while. 

While  many  a  heart  by  death  is  torn, 

Our  home  has  never  been  bereft — 
Lone  and  despairing  thousands  mourn — 

Our  dearest  blessings  have  been  left. 
While  lives,  which  once  together  ran, 

By  worse  than  death  have  been  estranged, 
The  hearts  of  our  loved  household  band, 

Through  all  these  years  remain  unchanged. 

Bless  we  the  Father  !    every  good 

And  perfect  gift  by  Him  is  given, 
He  guides  us  safely  in  life's  road, 

To  happier  birth-day  still  in  heaven. 
For  all  the  joy  and  sorrowing, 

Which  past  and  present  years  record, 
For  all  the  unseen  future  brings, 

Through  life  and  death — bless  we  the  Lord. 

Glen-Echo   Home,  April  id,    1859. 


The  Sister's  Death.  17 


THE   SISTER'S   DEATH. 

OUR  sister-band    is  severed 
By  death's  unpitying  blow, 
And  she,  the  youngest,  dearest-loved, 

Was  soonest  called  to  go — 
And  glad  the  spirit  bade  adieu 
To    its   worn   robes   of  clay, 
And    clothed    in   garments   pure   and    new, 
Soared    to   its   home   away. 

As   fades   the   glowing   sunlight 

Before    our   longing   gaze — 
As   withers   ere    the    night,  the   flower 

First    touched   by   morning's   rays — 
As   dies   the   sweetest    lingering   strain 

Of  music   on    the   ear, 
So   soft   the  sound,  the   list'ner   stills 

His   tremulous    breath   to    hear — 

So   dies   our   best    and   gentlest, 

With   heart    yet   fresh   and   warm; 
'Tis  e'er    "  the   bird    that   sweetest  sings 

Can    least  endure   the  storm  ;" 
The  flower   that   blooms  the  loveliest 

Is  first   to  fade  at  even, 
And   the  heart   that   beats  the  truest    here 

Is  soonest   fit    for  Heaven. 

2* 


1 8  Little  Luna. 

Yet  mourn  we  not,  dear  sister, 

As  those  of  hope  bereft, 
Nor  would  we  vainly  call  thee  back 

To  us  in  sorrow  left — 
But    trusting   that  our   Father's  love 

All   knowledge  doth   excel, 
We  wait    His  time  to  follow  thee, 

In  deathless  life  to  dwell. 


LITTLE    LUNA. 

GONE  from  our  sight  the  blushing  flowers, 
Which  sweet  rejoicing  summer  woke, 
For  one  short  day  to  grace  our  bowers, 
Ere  chilled  by  cruel  winter's  stroke — 
So  from  our  sight,   'mid  anguish  deep, 

Her  form  has  vanished,  ah,  how  soon  ! 
The  darling  child  who  fell  asleep 
Beneath  the  sunny  skies  of  June. 

Silent  the  warbling,  full  and  clear, 

Of  song-birds  borne  on  every  breeze, 
Which  filled  the  flower-scented  air 

With  spring's  enchanted  melodies — 
But  deeper,  sadder  silence  reigns 

Where  her  young  voice,  perchance  too  dear, 
Has  ceased  for  aye  its  gladdening  strains, 

Leaving  but  mocking  echoes  here. 


Little  Luna.  19 

Dear  little  Luna  !    nevermore 

Her  lips  to  ours  in  love  may  press, 
Her  brief  day-dream  of  life  is  o'er, 

And  stilled  in  death  the  fond  caress; 
But  as  the  weary  days  roll  by, 

We  sometimes  feel  she  may  be  near, 
And  vainly  turn  with  longing  sigh; 

Her  look  to  meet,  her  voice  to  hear. 

Oh  !    were  it  not,  that  He  who  gives 

In  taking  but  recalls  His  own, 
Where  were  our  refuge  when  we  grieve 

O'er  earthly  idols,  shattered,  flown? 
But  He  is  Love,  undying,  pure — 

And  though  the  cherished  form  has  fled, 
Guarded  by  Him  whose  word  is  sure. 

She  lives  in  heaven,  whom  we  call  dead. 


Dead  !    'tis  too  harsh,  too  cold  a  word 

For  her  who  gained  a  heavenly  home  ; 
Rather  the  Saviour's  voice  she  heard, 

"To  me  let  little  children  come" — 
And  thrilled  with  joy  by  music  deep, 

Sweet  echoes  of  a  seraph's  tune, 
In  angel  arms  she  fell  asleep. 

Beneath  the  sunny  skies  of  June. 


2O  The   Twin  Pines. 


THE   TWIN   PINES. 

"PWO  pine  trees  side  by  side  are  seen, 
-*-    Enclosed  within  my  garden's  bound, 
With  robes  of  bright  enduring  green, 

And  tbeir  own  softly  murmuring  sound  — 
So  many  years  I've  watched  them  grow, 

Their  kindly  look  have  daily  met, 
That  long-tried  friends  we  seem,  who  know 
The  love  which  never  doth  forget. 

I've  sat  beneath  their  waving  shade 

In  many  a  lingering  summer  hour, 
And  watched  the  streamlet  as  it  played 

In  graceful  eddies  round  the  shore, 
And  giving  to  my  fancy  play, 

Have  questioned  these  my  fav'rite  pines, 
Half  hoping  and  half  jestingly, 

Their  being's  mystery  to  untwine. 

"  Oh  trees,  that  wave  my  head  above, 

Some  answer  make,  some  token  give 
Of  consciousness,  that  I  may  prove 

How  much  is  worth  the  life  ye  live,- 
Say  do  ye  feel  when  friendly  arm 

Around  your  rugged  trunk  I  place, 
As  mortals  feel,  with  heart-throb  warm, 

When  thus  they  meet  a  friend's  embrace? 


The   Twin  Pines.  21 

"  Where'er  the  wild  bird  sings,  as  now 

Upon  your  top,  his  clearest  strains, 
Oh,  springs  there  not  from  root  to  bough 

Deep  joy  within  your  wooded  veins? 
And  ever  as  that  sweetest  song, 

The  shout  of  childhood's  voice  is  heard, 
Say,  as  the  echo  thrills  along 

Are  not  your  tenderest  pulses  stirred? 

"  The  fountain  throwing  playfully 

Its  sparkling  burden  in  your  sight, 
The  sunrise  tinting  earth  and  sky 

With  heaven's  own  welcome  glorious  light, 
The  thunder  cloud,  the  lightning's  dart, 

The  flowers  that  blossom  at  your  foot, 
Methinks  these  all  should  move  your  heart 

To  rapture,  though  the  voice  be  mute. 


"  'Twere  sweet  to  fancy  that  ye  love 

And  share  in  all  the  joys  I  see, 
But  sweeter  still  to  seek  and  prove 

The  blessedness  of  sympathy — 
In  hours  when  sorrow  bows  the  head, 

And  blights  the  face  of  all  below, 
We  long  for  frienship's  aid  to  shed 

Its  precious  light  o'er  human  woe. 


22  The  Twin  Pines. 

"  When  sickness  seized  our  household  band, 

Murmurs  of  love  did  you  extend  ? 
As  sorrow  pressed  with  iron  hand, 

Did  your  sad  boughs  with  pity  bend  ? 
And  on  that  night  when  roused  from  sleep 

The  burning  homestead  met  our  gaze, 
Did  ghastly  terror  o'er  you  creep, 

As  dumb,  ye  watched  its  lurid  blaze  ? 

"  Upon  that  dark  and  mournful  morn 

In  which  our  eldest-born  went  forth, 
With  manly  courage  girded  on, 

To   join  the  armies   of  the  north — 
The  wind  that  sighed  your  branches  through, 

Breathed  it  of  warning  or  success  ? 
Did  ye  waft  forth  a  last  adieu, 

Or  safe  return  to  happiness? 

"  Still  silent  friends  !  and  is  there  yet 

To  my  fond  search  no  answer  given  ? 
Oh  never  then  may  I  forget 

The  trusting  heart's  appeal  to  heaven." 
The  God  alone,  who  made  them,  knows 

The  bounded  powers  of  shrub  and  tree, 
l^QfJ*-    While -oft- mortals  He  bestows 
His  limitless  eternity. 

Glen-Echo   Home,  August,  1862. 


Dannie  Darling.  23 


DORM  IE  DARLING. 

THOU'RT  gone  to  rest  before  me,  Dormie  darling, 
Thou'rt  gone  to  rest,  my  child — 
That  sleep  from  which  no  earthly  power  can  waken. 
Thy  weary,  drooping  lids  hath  overtaken, 
And  death  a  helpless  prisoner  hath  bound  thee, 
And  the  grave's  solitude  and  gloom  surround  thee, 
Yet  from  the  past,  as  sent  on  wings  of  healing, 
Like  sweet  perfume  from  faded  flowers  stealing, 
Thy  memory  comes  o'er  me,  Dormie  darling, 
Comes  over  me,  my  child. 

Thou  wert  my  joy  and  blessing,  Dormie  darling, 

My  joy  and  blessing,  child — 
Thou  hadst  my  senses  in  most  holy  keeping, 
Thy  lightest  tones  would  set  my  pulses  leaping, 
And  never  yet,  beloved,  didst  thou  grieve  me, 
Until  at  higher  bidding  thou  didst  leave  me 
To  find  mid  purer  scenes  thy  home  in  heaven — 
While  here  in  loneliness  from  morn  till  even 
I  long  for  thy  caressing,  Dormie  darling, 

I  long  for  thee,  my  child. 

I'm  longing  for  some  token,  Dormie  darling, 

Some  token,  dearest  child, 
That  though  a  glorious  spirit,  thou  art  near  me, 
With  gentle  soothing,  striving  still  to  cheer  me — 


24  Dormie  Darling. 

Oh  !  but  to  hear  the  softly  breathed  "  Mother" 
Whispered  by  lips,  with  music  like  none  other — 
Oh  !  but  to  feel  thine  arms'  slight  pressure  round  me 
Whose  sweetest  and  most  welcome  fetters  bound  me, 
And  read  the  love  unspoken,  Dormie  darling, 
In  thy  pure  eyes,  my  child. 

My  life  is  dark  and  lonely,  Dormie  darling, 

I'm  lonely  now,  my  child — 

For  the  blest  radiance  from  thy  presence  beaming, 
Lighting  the  future  with  such  glorious  seeming, 
Went  out  with  thee,  and  stricken  down  I'm  groping 
'Along  tangled  reeds,  by  quivering  torchlight,  hoping, 
Still  hoping  for  that  promised  dawn,  whose  breaking 
Will  loose  the  bonds  which  keep  the  soul  from  waking, 

In  whose  pure  brightness  only,  Dormie  darling, 
We  meet  again,  my  child. 

Our  love  can  never  perish,  Dormie  darling, 

It  cannot  fade,  my  child, 
Gift  of  the  Infinite,  which  we  inherit, 
As  all  His  children,  whose  pure  loving  spirit, 
As  shown  alike  in  giving  and  recalling, 
Will  surely  keep  our  fainting  steps  from  falling. 
So  trusting  on  till  unto  us  'tis  given 
To  meet  rejoicing  in  that  glorious  heaven, 

Life  of  my  life,  I  cherish,  Dormie  darling, 
My  love  for  thee,  my  child. 


Valedictory  to  a   Cooking  Stove.  25 

VALEDICTORY. 

ON    PARTING    WITH    AN    OLD    COOK-STOVE. 

WELL,  thou  and  I  must  part,  my  trusty  friend — 
"The  powers  that  be,"  desirous  of  a  change, 
Have  ordered  it,  and  we  must  bow  our  heads 
To  the  stern  mandate,  and  prepare  to  obey. 
Stand  up  before  me — let  me  wash  the  rust 
Off  thy  neglected  phiz,  that  thou  mayest  go 
To  thy  new  service  cleaned  and  brightly  shining, 
A  certain  token  of  good  housewifery — 
Or  else,  in  this  fault-finding,  slanderous  world, 
Some  tongue  may  say,  (well  pleased  to  find  a  cause,) 
"Stove  soiled  like  this  must  come  from  careless  hand," 
And  thus  dishonor  both  thyself  and  me. 

And  while  I  thus,  for  the  last  time,  bestow 
This  oft-repeated  favor,  let's  look  back 
Upon  the'  many  years,  whose  joys  and  woes, 
And  various  changes,  thou  and  I  have  borne 
In  fellowship.      A  faithful  friend  thou  wert, 
And  ever  ready  to  assistance  give 
When  I  most  needed  help — refusing  never 
To  bake,  to  boil  or  fry,  when  called  upon 
For  any  of  these  duties — nay,  in  that 
Most  bustling,  most  important  of  all  times, 
The  preparation-day  for  company, 
Thy  willingness  did  manifest  itself. 
3 


26  Valedictory  to  a   Cooking  Stove. 

And  if  success  crowned  our  united  efforts, 
In  shape  of  well-baked  pies,  light  bread  and  cake, 
Thy  black  and  shining  visage  glowed  with  pleasure, 
And  e'en  my  face  relaxed  into  a  smile. 

And  when  unwelcome  visitors  did  stop 
Before  our  door,  and  caught  us  unprepared, 
Thine  was  the  ear  (since  thou  couldst  tell  no  tales,) 
That  listened  to  my  scolding  and  complaints — 
And  thine  too  was  the  ready  sympathy 
To  aid  me  in  my  trouble,  not  regarding 
The  frown,  or  blow,  or  banging  of  the  doors, 
With  which  my  spite  did  vent  itself  on  thee. 

Well-traveled  art  thou,  it  must  be  confessed, 
And  something  knowest  of   the  world — or  else 
Thy  privileges  have  been  much  abused ; 
For  thou  and  I  have  been  true  yoke-fellows 
In  many  different  towns  and  villages, 
And  wheresoever  we  have  pitched  our  tent, 
Thy  cheerful  blaze  has  helped  to  make  it  hofne. 

And  last,  though  not  the  least  of  all  thy  favors, 
In  these  days  of  aspiring  geniuses, 
When  servants  must  be  leaders,  well  obeyed, 
And  former  masters  wear  the  yoke  of  bondage, 
Thou  never  hast  rebelled — but  wond'rous  fact, 
Myself  have  been  the  mistress — thou  the  slave  ! 

Well,  go  thy  ways,  old   friend— and  worldling-like 
I  shall  forget  thy  services,  perchance, 
And  join  the  cry,   "new  measures  and  reform." 


The  Silver  Wedding.  27 

Thus  showing  the  unsatisfied  desires 

Of  all  the  human  race — and  how  we  strive, 

And  wear  our  very  lives  away  in  striving 

For  something  far  beyond  what  now  we  hold — 

And  sometimes,  not  unlike  the  fabled  dog, 

In  vainly  trying  to  attain  the  shadow, 

We  lose  and  ne'er  regain  the  precious  substance. 


THE   SILVER   WEDDING.* 

OWEET  autumn  lends  its  purest  light 
O  Of  golden  sun  and  mellow  skies, 
Its  lovely  landscapes  glowing  bright 

With  varying  tints  of  gorgeous  dyes ; 
And  dearest  friends  have  gathered  round 

To  bring  their  offerings  of  love; 
And  smiles  and  joy  and  mirth  abound, 

While  music  echoes  through  the  grove- 
And  heaven  and  earth  combine,  to  say, 
How  blest  this  silver  wedding-day. 

Think  they,  this  middle-aged  pair, 
Standing  below  the  autumn  wreath, 

With  tint  of  silver  in  their  hair, 
But  tender  smiling  eyes  beneath, — 

*  Of  neighbor  friends. 


28  The  Silver  Wedding. 

Think  they  of  one  bright  rose-hued  day, 
When  strong  in  youthful  hope,  they  stood 

The  central  object  for  the  gaze 
Of  an  admiring  multitude, 

And  spake  the  words,  with  earnest  breath, 

Which  made  them  one, — for  life,   for  death? 

_  The  passing  years  to  them  have  brought, 

As  unto  all  of  human  birth, 
Such  discipline,  with  anguish  fraught, 

As  makes  life  seem  of  little  worth — 
And   joys  so  deep,  so  full  of  heaven, 

So  overcharged  with  joy's  excess, 
That  strength  divine  must  needs  be  given, 

Or  the  heart  faints  with  happiness. 
Such  destiny  our  Father  gives, 
Such  checkered  lives  His  children  live. 

Oh,  it  is  meet,  that  friends  should  come 

Rejoicing  in  this  festive  hour, 
That  gifts  of  love  should  grace  the  home, 

And  music  yield  its  thrilling  power — 
That  sweetest,  choicest  flowers  should  lend 

Their  fragrant  blossoming  to  bless, 
With  gleam  of  shining  ore  to  blend 

Their  smiles  with    nature's  loveliness. 
One  hour  like  this  sends  gilded  rays 
Through  all  life's  darkening  future  days. 


The  Little  Empty  Carriage.  29 

At  ancient  Cana's  marriage -feast, 

Was  wrought  the  miracle  of  love, 
vni^ttpL  By  the  .gracious-  Saviour-guest, 

His  goodness  and  His  power  to  prove — 
Be  His,  to-day,  the  crowning  gift, 

Which  he  to  wedded  hearts  has  given, 
Two  souls  as  one,  in  love^plift, 

And  bathe  in  beams  of  light  from  heaven, 
So  making  life,  with  sunny  ray, 
One  glorious  silver  wedding-day. 


THE   LITTLE    EMPTY   CARRIAGE. 

I   KNOW  a  little  carriage, 
With  lining  soft  and  warm, 
With  dainty  covering  to  protect 

Its  inmate  from  all  harm  : 
With  wheels  that  o'er  the  matted  floor. 

Or  on  the  grassy  street, 
When  guided  by  a  loving  hand, 

Gave  sound  of  music  sweet — 
Gave  sound  of  music  to  the  ear, 

And  gladness  to  the  heart 
Of  those,  who  called  its  owner  dear, 

In  life  their  sweetest  part. 
3* 


30  The  Little  Empty    Carriage. 

But  now  the  lonely  carriage 

Stands  amid  silence  deep, 
No  more  the  little  dimpled  hand 

Clasps  it  in  broken  sleep — 
No  more  the  print  of  baby  form 

Is  left  its  depths  among, 
As  when  his  infant  restlessness 

Was  calmed  by  voice  of  song — 
And  'neath  its  shading  roof,  no  more 

The  dark  and  earnest  eye 
Catches  with  smiles  the  loving  glance 

Of  every  passer-by. 


Alas,  the  empty  carnage  ! 

Alas,  the  aching  heart ! 
And  lives  made  doubly  desolate 

By  sorrow's  keenest  dart ! 
Ne'er  did  fairer,  lovelier  babe, 

Fill  parent's  heart  with  bliss; 
Ne'er  did  one  short  year  yield  more 

Of  perfect  happiness — 
But  passing  great  as  was  the  joy, 

So  deep  is  now  the  loss, 
As  when  the  melted  ore  runs  out, 

More  darkly  glooms  the  dross. 


The  Little  Empty  Carriage.  31 

While  many  a  smitten  household 

Laments  its  idols  gone, 
And  turns  from  dead  to  living  face, 

To  soothe  its  anguished  moan, 
This  little    only    darling  one 

Of  hearts,  who,  sorely  tried, 
Had  drank  before  this  self-same  cup, 

Closed  his  pure  eyes  and  died. 
And  by  his  sister's  side,  adorned 

With  many  a  flowering  wreath, 
They  laid  him  in  life's  opening  morn, 

Locked  in  the  sleep  of  death. 


Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust, 

But  loosened  from  earth's  clod, 
The  spirit  springs  on  radiant  wing 

And  bows  before  its  God. 
Father,  anoint  these  heavy  eyes 

And  moaning  hearts,  to  see 
Their  new-born  angel,  clothed  in  light 

And  happiness  with  Thee ; 
Teach  them  that  in  their  children's  bliss 

Their  lives  may  well  be  blest, 
That  earth's  stern  duties  once  fulfilled, 

They'll  meet  in  heavenly  rest. 


RELIGIOUS 


TAUGHT    OF    GOD. 

"  And   they  shall   be  all  taught  of  God." — JOHN   vi,  45. 
"  Learn  of   Me." — MATTHEW   xi,   29. 

OF  all  the  glowing  promises 
That  circle  the  creation  broad, 
None  so  exalting  seems  as  this, 

That  they  shall  all  be  taught  of  God. 
What!    the  Creator  Infinite! 

The  High  and  Holy  One  who  reigns, 
Uncomprehended  in  the  height 
Oi  vast  eternity's  domain  ! 

Has  He  such  care  for  mortals,  weak 

And  sinful,  lost  in  wanderings  wild, 
That  his  strong  hand  should  reach  to  seek 

And  lead  the  merest  earth-born  child  ? 
Oh!    Power  supreme,  incline  our  heart!- 

Oh !    Light,  shine  on  our  darkened  road 
Teach  us  to  seek  the  better  part, 

Our  souls  would  fain  be  taught  of  God. 


Taught  of  God.  33 

He  gives  alike  earth's  hidden  lore, 

And  intellect  that  comprehends  ; 
He  beckons  through  the  opening  door, 

And  to  the  heavens  the  eye  ascends — 
And  scanning  all  the  mysteries 

Of  stars  and  planets  as  they  move, 
The  humble  soul,  adoring,  cries, 

Our  God  is  Wisdom — God  is  Love. 


Yes,  God  is  Wisdom — God  is  Love; 

And  yet  this  greatest  crowning  grace, 
We  hold  all  other  gifts  above, 

To  us  He  shows  a  Father1  s  face, 
A  Father's  heart.     'Twas  this  that  moved 

This  message  through  His  chosen  One, 
He  loves  our  race  with  stronger  love 

Than  earthly  parent  loves  his  own. 

Dear  fellow-learners  in  Christ's  school, 

Perchance  on  earth  we'll  never  meet, 
But  yielding  to  his  gentle  rule, 

And  humbly  falling  at  His  feet, 
We'll  know  in  truth,  this  love  so  broad, 

And  the  vast  treasures  of  His  grace ; 
For  they  most  truly  learn  of  God, 

Who  study  Him  in  Jesus'  face. 


34  The  Dying   Wife. 


THE    DYING    WIFE. 

I    FEEL  thy  tears  upon  my  brow, 
I  hear  thy  quivering  deep-drawn  sigh, 
And  though  the  death-damp  chills  me  now, 

And  dark  mists  hover  o'er  my  eye, 
I  love  thee  as  in  bye  past  years 

We've  loved,  returning  each  caress, 
And  smiling  on  our  children  dear, 
So  soon  to  be  left  motherless. 

I've  loved  thee,  dearest,  with  a  love 

So  free  from  taint  of  sinful  earth. 
That  to  be  felt  in  courts  above 

'Twill  need  no  change  of  heavenly  birth  ; 
And  now,  although  my  weary  heart 

Would  seek  its  rest,  I  fain  would  bless 
Thy  fond  affection,  ere  I  part 

From  thee  and  them — the  motherless. 

Kind  hast  thou  ever  been  to  me, 

Fulfilling  with  a  watchful  care, 
The  vow  which   Heaven  required  of  thee, 

When  we  united  bowed  in  prayer — 
The  vow  to  love  "till  death  shall  part," 

Thou  didst  perform,  and  I  was  blest — 
Now  new  duties  claim  thy  heart, 

To  watch  and  guard  the  motherless. 


The  Dying  Wife.  35 

Come,  lay  your  hand  so  gently  now 

In  blessing  their  fair  heads  upon, 
And  kiss  the  pure  and  open  brow 

Of  this,  our  lisping,  youngest  one, 
And  with  a  father's  kindly  voice, 

In  pity  soothe  their  deep  distress, 
And  bid  their  sorrowing  hearts  rejoice — 

Deal  gently  with  the  motherless. 


And  when  the  tones  of  chiding    fall 

So  heavily  upon  their  ear, 
And  from  stern  looks  and  harsher  call 

They  shrink  away  in  childish  fear, 
Do  thou  support  and  comfort  give, 

With  words  of  love  and  fond  caress 
And  ever,  ever,  while  they  live, 

Be  kind  unto  the  motherless. 


And  in  the  solemn  twilight  hour, 

When  evening's  shadows  slowly  fall, 
And  every  whispered  word  has  power 

The  listener's  senses  to  enthrall, 
Teach  them  to  seek  for  Gilead's  balm, 

And  virtue  on  their  minds  impress  ; 
And  in  that  holy  twilight  calm 

I'll   join  thee  and  thy  motherless. 


36  Is  it  well  with  the  Child? 

Now  closer  clasp  my  hand  in  thine, 

And  press  thy  lips  upon  my  brow, 
One  fond,  one  thrilling  kiss  is  mine — 

Oh,  would  that  I  could  see  thee  now ! 
Who  grasps  my  heart?    'tis  death — 'tis  death, 

His  icy  hands  my  brain  oppress, 
Receive  my  struggling,  latest  breath, 

Be  faithful  to  the  motherless. 


IS    IT   WELL   WITH    THE    CHILD? 

"  Is  it  well  with  the  child  ?      And  she  answered,  It  is  well." 

II   KINGS  iv,   26. 

IS  it  well  with  the  child,  when  in  life's  early  morn, 
His  glad,   innocent  smiles  have   thrown  o'er  him  a 

spell, 
So  pure  and  so  holy,   that  guilt's  cringing  form 

Shrinks  abashed  from  his  presence?     'Tis  well — it  is 
well. 

Is  it  well  with  the  child,  when  blest  from  above 
With  parents  to  guard,  in  whose  heart  he  doth  dwell  ? 

When  with  kisses  and  soft  murmured  whispers  of  love, 
He  glides  into  slumber?     'Tis  well — it  is  well. 


Is  it  well  with  the  Child?  37 

Is  it  well  with  the  child,  when  beneath  the  fond  gaze 
Of  the  friends  whose  affection  no  language  can  tell, 

He  unfolds  like  a  flower,  'neath  the  sun's  warming  rays, 
Into  goodness  and  gentleness?  Sure,  it  is  well. 

Is  it  well  with  the  child,  when  with  sickness  oppress'd, 
Whose  dreaded  approaches  no  art  can  repel  ? 

He  murmurs  and  groans  in  his  troubled  unrest, 

And  with  soul-piercing  cries,  begs  for  aid — is  it  well  ? 

Is  it  well  with  the  child,  when  his  quivering  form 
Is  thrilled  with  an  anguish,  how  deep,  none  can  tell — 

When  curdles  the  blood,  which  of  late  flowed  so  warm, 
And  the  death-pang  comes  o'er  him  ?    Oh  say,  is  it 
well? 

x 

Is  it  well  with  the  child,  when  slow  to  the  grave 
He  is  borne  at  the  sound  of  the  deep-tolling  bell  ? 

When  his  spirit  returns  to  the  Father  who  gave, 
And  our  home  is  left  desolate?     Oh,  is  it  well? 

Is  it  well  with  the  child,  when  he  soars  to  the  light, 
Which  no  cloud  can  o'ershadow,  nor  darkness  dispel  ? 

A»d  is  clothed  in  a  garment  of  holiness  bright, 
And  on  Jesus'  own  bosom  finds  rest — it  is  well. 

Is  it  well  with  the  child,  when  amid  the  bright  throng 
He  joins  the  full  chorus  which  seraphim  swell, 

And  in  heaven-taught  language  re-echoes  the  song  ? 
Is  it  well  with  the  child?     It  is  well — it  is  well. 

4 


38  Graves. 


GRAVES. 

SAD  is  the  grave  where  the  lone  infant  sleeps, 
Wrapt  in  soft  grasses,  or  radiant  with  flowers, 
Where  tearful,  the  grief-stricken  mother  still  keeps 

The  vigil  unceasing  through  wearisome  hours — 
Sad,  for  the  little  mound  tells  of  a  hope, 

That  was  blasted  ere  its  full  growth  was  attained, 
Of  a  love,  bleeding,  wounded    by  dregs  from  the  cup, 

Which,  pressed  to  the  lips,  must  ever  be  drained. 
But  sadder  'twould  be,  for  that  mother  to  weep 

O'er  the  infant  matured,  by  sin  denied, 
And  darker  the  grave,  in  the  heart  dug  deep, 

By  the  "serpent  tooth"  of  the  "thankless  child." 

White  gleams  the  marble,  marking  the  place, 

Where  the  rich  and  honored  of  earth  are  at  rest, 
Close  beside,  sleep  the  poor  of  the  self-same  race, 

Whom  pitying  nature  receives  to  her  breast — 
The  earth  with  graves  is  so  thickly  o'erspread, 

So  numberless  mounds  our  vision  meet, 
That  we  almost  fear  to  harm  the  dead 

With  the  echoing  tread  of  our  restless  feet. 
But  deeper  and  sadder  the  grave  closing  round 

All  hope  of  reform  for  the  living  dead, 
And  colder  the  heart  which  utters  no  sound, 

Entombed  in  the  darkness  of  trust  betrayed. 


Graves.  39 

Scattered  all  over  our  beautiful  land, 

The  lifeless  forms  of  her  soldiery  lie, 
Brave  hearts,  who  at  pitiless  duty's  command, 

Left  homes  desolate,  for  country  to  die. 
By  sickness,  by  prison,  by  bullet  low  laid — 

Holds  the  broad  earth  a  more  sorrowful  sight, 
Than    the   scarcely-grassed    mounds   of  this   harvest    of 
dead, 

Who  v/ere  almost  forbidden  the  funeral  rite? 
Vet  bitterer  still  is  the  exile's  fate, 

Who,  no  country  to  die  for,  mourns  out  his  days — 
And  more  gloomy  the  death  in  life,  which  awaits 

The  infamous  wretch,  who  his  country  betrays. 

Oh,  many  a  grave  for  the  breathing  dead 

Is  colder  and  darker  than  sexton  scoops, 
And  weightiest  burial-stone  is  laid 

On  the  hidden  tomb  of  departed  hopes. 
God  pity  the  grave  in  the  human  breast, 

O'er  which  bitter  tears  are  hopelessly  shed  ; 
And  with  balm  from  the  land  of  heavenly  rest, 

Give  penitent  hope  to  the  living  dead. 
Teach  us,  thy  pupils,  unapt  as  we  are, 

To  bury  our  life- burden  deep  in  Thy  love, 
And  uttering  low  the  Gethsemane  prayer, 

Wait  humbly  the  sure-coming  aid  from  above. 


40  On  our  way,  Sorrowing 


"ON   OUR    WAY,    SORROWING." 

OH    a  sad  world  and  weary, 
Is  this  in  which  we  live; 
Its  paths  are  dark  and  dreary, 

And  piercing  thorns  they  give, 
As  toiling  on  our  way  we  go, 
With  bleeding  heart  and  aching  brow. 

The  seasons  in  their  rolling, 

Lament   for  pleasures  fled — 
The  church-bell,  in  its  tolling, 

Bewails  the  passing  dead — 
And  sunny  smiles  and  sparkling  eyes 
But  show  where  hidden  sorrow  lies. 

To  earth,  our  common  mother, 

We  equally  do  tend, 
Yet  brother  parts  from  brother, 

And  friend  forgets  his  friend, 
And  hearts  which  once  true  union  swore, 
Estranged  and  sorrowing,  meet  no  more. 

If  such  our  lot,  oh  Father! 

Thou  God  in  whom  we  trust ; 
If  such  our  life,  oh  rather 

We  were  sleeping  in  the  dust. 
Released  from  sorrows  we  would  be, 
And  find  ourselves  at  rest  with  Thee. 


Christmas  Hymn.  41 

CHRISTMAS    HYMN.* 

'AT  ID    Bethelem's  jarring   strife 
IVi.   Angelic  watch  was  kept, 
O'er  where,  with  newly  throbbing  life, 
A  Jewish  infant  slept. 

For  Him  the  angel  band 

Peals  forth  its  song  of  praise, 

And  Eastern  sages  wondering  stand, 
And  worship  as  they  gaze. 

A  child  of  mortal  birth, 

Yet  unto  Him  was  given 
To  lead  the  erring  sons  of  earth 

Repentant  into  Heaven. 

The  babe  of  Bethlehem 

Is  Zion's  Lord  and  King; 
Adore  Him  all  ye  sons  of  men, 

And  loud  His  praises  sing. 

The  world's  Redeemer — He 

The  sceptre  shall  maintain, 
Till  every  creature  bend  the  knee, 

And  God  alone  shall   reign. 

Saviour,  we  claim  a  part 

With  angel  choirs  above ; 
Inspire  our  every  tongue  and  heart 

To  chant  Thine  endless  love. 

*  This,  and   the  two   Hymns   following,   were  written   by  request,   for 
public  occasions. 

4* 


42  Dedication  Hymn. 

DEDICATION     HYMN.* 

FATHER,  although  Thou  needest  not 
The  tribute  which  Thy  children  raise, 
This  temple,  which  our  hands  have  wrought, 
We  dedicate  unto  Thy  praise. 

Full  well  we  know,  without  Thine  aid, 
In  vain  we  would  an  altar  rear, 

In  vain  are  all   our  efforts  made, 
Except  Thy  blessing  meet  us  here. 

To  Thee,  with  upraised  heart  and  voice, 
We  come  that  blessing  to  implore, 

Thy  grace  can  make  our  souls  rejoice, 
Thy  mercy  guide  us  evermore. 

Thou  knowest,  Lord,  our  every  need, 
Each   joy,  each  grief  to  Thee  is  known, 

Thy  power  alone,  our  souls  can  feed, 
Or  soothe  the  wearied  spirit's  moan. 

To  hear  of   Thee,  and  learn  Thy  ways, 
To  know  and  feel  Thy  presence  near, 

To  worship  Thee  in  prayer  and  praise, 
Father,  we  fain  would  meet  Thee  here. 

And  oft,  as  in  these  hallowed  walls, 
A  loving,  happy  band  we  come. 

May  Thy  great  love  surround  us  all, 
And  teach  us  of  our  heavenly  home. 

*  Cn  the  dedication  of  a  Church  in   Essex,  Vt. 


Dedication  Hymn.  43 

ANOTHER.* 

NOT  as  Thine  ancient  servants  came 
To  call  upon  Thine  awful  name, 
With  fire,  with  victim,  and  with  blood, 
To  ensure  Thy  blessing, -mighty  God. 

Not  thus  we  come — our  offering, 
From  joyous,  trusting  hearts,  we  bring, 
An  altar  that  we  child-like  raise, 
Thy  changeless  care  and  love  to  praise. 

Accept  it  Father — bid  us  come, 
And  in  Thy  presence  feel  at  home, 
Here  let  our  prayers  and  praise  ascend, 
And  round  Thy  footstool  sweetly  blend. 

Here  let  the  weary  aged  one, 
Whose  race  in  life  is  almost  run, 
Receive  the  foretaste  of  that  rest 
He  soon  shall  find  on  Jesus'  breast. 

Here  let  the  strong  man,  in  his  might, 
Submissive  bow  before  Thy  sight ; 
The  youth,  life's  stormy  paths  untried, 
Gain  here  an  everlasting  Guide. 

And  children,  Thy  peculiar  care, 
Let  them  be  taught  Thy  precepts  here, 
That  seeking  early,  they  may  find 
Thee  more  than  earthly  parent  kind. 

*  On  the  dedication  of  a  Church  in  Barre,  Vt. 


44  Rest  for  the  Heart-Sick. 

This  house,  which  now  we  dedicate, 
Oh,  may  we  find  it  Heaven's  own  gate, 
And  henceforth,  oft  assembling  here, 
In  joy  or  sorrow,  prove  Thee  near. 


SONG    OF   THE    HEART-SICK. 


FOR  rest  the  weary  cry, 
Rest  for  the  heart  that's  breaking, 
Sleep  for  the  tearful  eye, 

The  sleep  that  knows  no  waking. 

For  this  my  spirit  longs  — 

Longs  for  that  dreamless  sleeping, 
Where,  countless  forms  among, 

There  comes  no  voice  of  weeping. 

Oh,  who  could  well  endure 
This  world  of  toil  and  sorrow, 

Were  not  the  night  full  sure 

Which  brings  the  great  to-morrow  ? 

Let  none  around  my  bed 
Lament  when  I  am  dying  — 

No  tear-drop  be  there  shed, 
No  sound  of  woe  or  sighing. 


Trust.  45 


But  sing  for  joy  aloud — 
Joy,  that  a  weary  mortal, 

Disburdened  of  his  load, 

Enters  Death's  darkened  portal. 

Joy,  that  the  cheerless  earth 
No  longer  chains  the  spirit; 

Joy,  that  through  heavenly  birth 
We  heavenly  rest  inherit. 

Joy,  that  the  soul  no  more 
Is  exiled,  tempest-driven — 

But  all  its  wanderings  o'er, 
Turns  to  its  native  Heaven. 


TRUST. 

WEEP  no  more — weep  no  more, 
Oh  thou  child  of  sorrow, 
Weeping  'dureth  for  a  night, 

But   joy  comes  on  the  morrow. 
As  sunshine  ever  after  rain, 

And  spring-time  follows  snow, 
So  gladness,  after  grief,  remains 
To  cheer  us  here  below. 


46  Trust. 

Weep  no  more — weep  no  more, 

Thou  for  lost  ones  mourning, 
Let  thy  tears  be  changed  to  smiles, 

Be  thy  hopes  returning. 
Look  to  Heaven  with  eye  of  faith, 

Which  never  gazed  in  vain, 
List  to  Jesus,  when   He  saith, 

Thy  friend  shall  rise  again. 

Weep  no  more — weep  no  more, 

Thou  for  pardon  thirsting, 
Lying  low  beneath  the  cross, 

Heart  with  sorrow  bursting — 
Drive  forever  from  the  breast 

All  despairing  feeling, 
Taste  the  balm  of  heavenly  rest 

For  the  nations'  healing. 

Weep  no  more — weep  no  more, 

Mortal  weak  and  moaning, 
With  daily  burden   overborne, 

Hush  thy  helpless  groaning — 
He,  who  assigned  the  burden  place 

Gives  strength  to  bear  the  load, 
And   joyous  trust  befits  the  race 

So  well-beloved  of  God. 


PATRIOTIC 


POEM   FOR   INDEPENDENCE   DAY. 

HOW  shall  we  celebrate  the  day 
To  which  our  freedom  owes  its  birth  ; 
When  firm,  yet  seeking  no  display, 
The  patriots  stood  in  proud  array, 
Before  the  mighty  ones  of  earth? 

Trusting  in  God,  they  stood  alone, 

With  dauntless  front  and  unquelled  eye, 
No  servile  fear,  no  sorrowing  moan, 
As  thus  they  braved  high  England's  throne, 
And   "Liberty  or  Death,"  their  cry. 

Heaven  smiled  propitious  on  the  hour, 

And  nerved  with  hope  the  little  band  — 
They  bade  farewell  to  beauty's  bower, 
And  armed  with  justice,  clothed  in  power, 

Fought  boldly  for  their  native  land. 

t 

They  fought  against  the  tyrant  king, 
Led  on  by  freedom's  chosen  son — 
With  clash  of  arms  the  valleys  ring, 
Till  loud  their  triumph-song  they  sing, 
Of  victory  and  Washington. 


48  Poem  for  Independence  Day. 

Not  all  in  vain  their  blood  so  free 

Was  spilled  like  rain-drops  o'er  the  earth, 

But  gathering  in  one  mighty  sea 

Waters  the    tree  of  liberty, 

Which  in  each  freeman's  heart  finds  birth. 

How  shall  we  celebrate  the  hour, 

Which  set  our  own  loved  country  free? 
With  joyous  shout  in  peaceful  bower, 
With  cannon's  roar,  and  music's  power, 
We'll  hail  the  Nation's  jubilee. 

Our  banner,  with  its  stripe  and  star, 

We'll  keep  unstained  from  sire  to  son — 

Each  breeze  shall  waft  its  folds  afar, 

Unsullied,  as  when  first  in  war 

It  waved  o'er  fields  of  vict'ry  won. 

We'll  teach  our  children  freedom's  song, 

To  lisp  in  artless  joyous  glee, 
And  ever,  as  the  strains  prolong, 
We'll  shout  the  echo  loud  and  long, 
'    Our  own  America  is  free  ! 


My  Soldier-Son.  49 


MY    SOLDIER-SON.* 


'"PHE  sweet  spring  comes,  whose  gentle  hand 
L    Unlocks  the  chains  from  shore  and  stream, 
And  flushed  with  joy,  the  freed  earth  stands 

Triumphant  in  the  morning's  beam  ; 
And  songs  of  birds,  and  hum  of  bees, 

And  murmuring  water's  lulling  sound, 
Are  borne  on  every  passing  breeze, 

That  scatters  joy  and  fragrance  round. 


Life  starts  anew  in  all  its  forms ; 

The  merest  creeping  thing  that  moves, 
Basks  in  the  self-same  ray  that  warms 

Sweet  birds,  that  soaring  chant  their  loves. 
And  shall  not  spring  unclose  the  eyes 

Of  him,  who  weary  sank  to  rest, 
And  sought,  from  wintry  storms  and  skies, 

Deep  refuge  in  earth's  sheltering  breast? 


*  Arthur  G.  Eaton,  of  the  Ninth  Vermont  Volunteers,  died   Novem- 
ber 8th,   1862. 


50  My  Soldier-Son. 

O,  loved  of  many  hearts,  awake  ! 

Our  longing  souls  thy  presence  crave, 
Shake  off  thy  death-cold  sleep,  and  break 

The  bands  and  silence  of  the  grave. 
Come  with  the  sunlight — wert  thou  here, 

Sunshine  would  reign  throughout  our  home — 
•    Come  with  the  smiling  spring  to  cheer 

The  hearts  that  wait  thee,  loved  one,  come. 


O  for  one  life-glance  from  those  eyes, 

Oh  for  one  tone  of  that  dear  voice. 
To  quell  the  murmuring  thoughts  that  rise, 

And  bid  our  chastened  hearts  rejoice — 
How  can  we  longer  yield  thee  up 

To  the  dark  keeping  of  the  grave? 
How  can  we  drink  the  bitter  cup, 

So  deeply  filled  with  sorrow's  wave  ? 


Is  love's  entreaty  slow  to  break 

The  chilling  silence  of  thy  rest  ? 
O,  for  the  eloquence  to  wake 

The  patriot  fire  within  thy  breast. 
Thou,   who  didst  lay  on  country's  shrine 

Thy  dearest  hopes,  thy  life,  thy  all, 
The  true  and  manly  heart  like  thine 

Heard  not  unmoved,  that  country's  call. 


My  Soldier-Son.  51 

What !    sleeping  ere  the  toil  is  o'er, 

And  the  decisive  battle  won? 
At  duty's  summons  sleep  no  more, 

Awake  and  arm,  my  soldier-son ! 
Arm  thee  !    for  treason  sows  its  seed 

And  rears  its  form  throughout  the  land — 
Now  is  thy  country's  sorest  need, 

Come  to  her  aid  with  ready  hand. 


Oh,  ne'er  till  now  hath  voice  of  love 

Failed  of  its  echo  in  thine  own: 
Never  till  now  hath  duty  proved 

Too  weak  to  rouse  thee,  soldier-son  ! 
To  call  thee  back  is  more  than  vain, 

Since  mightier  strength  than  that  of  earth 
Hath  bound  thee  with  unyielding  chain, 

And  given  thy  spirit  higher  birth. 


A  father's  sorrow-stricken  heart 

Laments,  my  soldier-son,  with  mine — 
And  brothers  mourn  the  cruel  dart, 

That  pierced  a  life  so  dear  as  thine — 
And  widowed,  orphaned,  wail  is  heard, 

That  tells  of  hopes  untimely  flown, 
By  which  life's  bitterest  depths  are  stirred 

And  souls  left  quivering,  bleeding,  lone. 


52  My  Soldier-Son. 

Oh  mocking  spring!    whose  sunny  smile 

Restores  the  lives  of  little  worth, 
But  weak  and  powerless  proves  the  while 

To  raise  the  noblest  ones  of  earth. 
Oh   joyous  birds,  whose  hopeful  strains 

Make  vocal  all  the  air  with  glee, 
Win  our  departed  back  again, 

Or  all  your  songs  are  mockery. 

But  yet  shall  come  a  glorious  spring, 

Foretold  by  sacred  pitying  grace, 
Rich  with  the  destinies  it  brings 

For  the  long-severed  of  our  race — 
When  triumph-shouts  and  angel-strains 

Proclaim  the  last  great  victory  won — 
In  that  blest  time  we'll  meet  again, 

To  part  no  more,  my  soldier-son. 

Glen- EC  ho  Home,  May,    1863. 


When  my  Boy  comes  back.  53 


WHEN   MY   BOY   COMES   BACK.* 

WHEN  my  boy  comes  back  to  me, 
O  !    when  my  boy  conies  back  to  me — 
This  is  the  burden  of  the  song, 
Whose  echoes  float  my  life  along  ; 
The  language  of  the  cherished  hope, 
Which  bears  my  weary  spirit  up, 
Through  lonely  days  of  sadness  deep, 
And  nights  unblessed  by  peaceful  sleep. 
As  sweetest  scents  from  crushed  flowers  rise, 
As  stars  gleam  out  from  dark'ning  skies, 
As  rainbow  through  fast  falling  shower 
Gives  promise  of  preserving  power, 
So  through  the  midnight  cloud  of  war 
Shines  forth  this  brightly  beaming  star ; 
So  o'er  the  battle's  roar  steals  up 
This  sweetest  song  of  deathless  hope ; 
And  yielding  to  its  witching  strain 
My  heart  beats  high  with  joy  again, 
And  pictures  of  sure-coming  bliss 
Fill  up  my  world  with  happiness ; 
Sweet  prophecies  of  what  shall  be 
When  my  boy  comes  back  to  me. 

*  Chase  Hall  Eaton,  of  the  Second  Vermont  Volunteers. 


54  When  my  Boy  comes  back. 

When  my  boy  comes  back  to  me, 
Dear  soldier-boy  comes  back  to  me — 
How  oft  at  fancy's  burning  shrine 
I  light  this  radiant  torch  of  mine, 
And  revel  in  its  glowing  ray, 
Till  darkest  night  is  brightest  day. 
When  watching  long,  my  straining  eye 
At  last,  some  moving  form  shall  spy 
And  in  the  shadowy  distance  see 
My  darling,  coming  back  to  me, 
O,  if  my  heart  break  not  with   joy, 
At  sight  of  my  returning  boy, 
How  shall  my  arms  around  him  twine, 
How  press  his  sun-browned  cheek  to  mine, 
How  shall  I  list  his  every  tone, 
As^heaven  should  speak  through  him  alone, 
How  all  the  pangs  of  absence  past, 
We'll  part  no  more  till  death  at  last. 
My  God  !    alone,  Thou  hast  the  power 
To  bring  this  fancied,  blissful  hour, 
To  Thee  I  look,  my  child  to  keep 
Unharmed  and  pure,  through  perils  deep, 
And  bring  the  joyful  time,  when  he, 
Brave  loyal  heart,  comes  back  to  'me. 

Glen-Echo   Home,  December,    1863. 


Dirge  for  a   Young  Soldier.  55 

DIRGE   FOR  A   YOUNG   SOLDIER, 

WHO    DIED    OF    WOUNDS    RECEIVED    IN    BATTLE. 

LAY  him  gently  to- his  rest, 
Fold  his  hands  upon  his  breast, 
Smooth  away  the  raven  hair, 
Clustering  round  the  brow  so  fair, 
Gaze  upon  him  with  a  smile, 
Though  with  breaking  heart  the  while. 

Bear  him  to  his  quiet  grave, 
Gently  bear  him,  young  and  brave, 
Lay  him  by  his  mother's  side, 
She,  who  in  his  childhood  died, 
Live'th  still,  with  angel  joy, 
Greeting  now  her  darling  boy. 

Song  and  story  long  shall  tell 
How  our  youthful  hero  fell, 
Pitying  eyes  will  oft  grow  dim, 
Aching  hearts  will  yearn  for  him, 
Sleeping  in  his  lowly  bed, 
With  the  turf  above  his  head. 

Give  the  soldier  welcome  home  — 
Weary  feet  no  more  will  roam, 
Throbbing  brow  and  suffering  limb 
Never  more  will  torture  him — 
Sweetly  sleeping,  finds  he  rest 
Pillowed  on  the  Saviour's  breast. 


56  The  Old  Blue  Coat. 


THE    OLD   BLUE    COAT. 

TENDERLY  care  for  the  old  blue  coat  ! 
Lovingly  shake  all  its  foldings  out ! 
Private  or  officer,  ask  not  to  know, 
Somebody  wore  it  while  facing  the  foe — 
Standing  up  firmly  on  Liberty's  part, 
Dealing  sure  death-blows  to  treason's  base  heart, 
Bearing  all  ills  a  true  hero  can  bear, 
Daring  all  deeds  a  stern  soldier  may  dare, 
Quailing  not,  though  the  swift  bullet  came  nigh, 
Striving  to  conquer,  or  bravely  to  die. 


Lonely  the  picket  and  tiresome  the  beat, 
Burdened  the  bosom  and  weary  the  feet, 
Longing  eyes  turning  to  some  smiling  star, 
Yearning  thoughts  resting  on  loved  ones  afar, 
Parent  or  children  dear,  sweetheart  or  wife  — 
Visions  of  those  held  more  closely  than  life, 
Thronging  the  heart,  and  filling  the  throat, 
Beating  so  wildly  beneath  the  old  coat — 
Mem'ries  of  anguish  and  victory  too 
Hallow  each  seam  of  its  well-worn  blue: 


The  Old  Blue  Coat.  57 

Linger  then  lovingly  o'er  the  old  coat ! 
Cherish  the  visions  that  over  it  float ! 
Many  a  weary  heart,  ceasing  to  beat, 
Silently  claims  it  as  winding  sheet ; 
Peacefully  resting,  his  life's  battles  done, 
Conquered  his  last  foe,  his  victory  won  ; 
Haply,  while  weeping  ones  mourn  him  as  dead, 
Angels,  rejoicing,  wreathe  crowns  for  his  head, 
Cleansing  all  vestige  of  earth-bounded  strife, 
Robing  the  spirit  for  heavenly  life. 


Reverence  pay  to  the  garment  which  bears 
Kinship  so  close  to  the  loved  stripes  and  stars ! 
Emblems  alike  of  a  roused  nation's  might, 
Joined  in  the  conflict  for  freedom  and  right, 
Faltering  never  at  duty's  command ; 
Victory  smiling,  with  laurels  in  hand, 
Beckoned  both  onward,  the  tattered  and  brave, 
Onward,  the  life  of  the  countfy  to  save. 
Planting  then  firmly  the  banner  which  holds 
Freedom  to  all  men,  inscribed  in  its  folds, 
Proudly  while  o'er  us  the  bright  colors  float, 
Honored  and  loved  be  the  old  blue  coat. 

Glen-Echo   Home. 


58  Fort  Sumter. 

FORT   SUMTER. 

"Thanks  be  to  God,  who  giveth  us  the  Victory." 

RAISE  high  the  flag,  ye  brave! 
And  as  its  folds  shake  out, 
From  spreading  shore  and  murm'ring  wave, 

Hark  to  the  answering  shout ! 
The  days  of  deep  dishonor  o'er, 
Old  Sumter  is  our  own  once  more. 


Once  more,  the  Union  stars 
Have  risen,  ne'er  to  fade — 

And  every  stripe  the  banner  bears, 
On  its  broad  face  displayed, 

Like  playful  child,  whose  task  is  done, 

Leaps  laughing-  to  the  noon-day  sun. 


Beats  high  the  nation's  heart, 
Swells  loud  the  nation's  voice — 

Hoarse- throated  cannon  bears  its  part, 
And  echoing  hills  rejoice, 

While  heartfelt  thanks  for  victory  given, 

Silent  and  sweet,  ascend  to  Heaven. 


Fort  Sumter.  59 

When  first  disloyal  hand 

Dealt  parricidal  blow, 
Rousing  the  slumberers  of  the  land, 

For  treason's  overthrow, 
Bore  the  proud  banner,  loved  of  old, 
One  blood-mark  on  each  shining  fold. 


But  Slavery's  stain  no  more 

Sullies  its  glorious  fame — 
The  God-sown  seed  asserts  its  power, 

To  cleanse  a  nation's  name, 
And  manifest  through  all  the  earth, 
Man  of  one  common  blood  has  birth. 


With  joy  and  deafening  cheers, 
Rear  then  the  flag  on  high  ! 

Emblem  of  all  we  hold  most  dear, 
True  life  and  liberty — 

And  shout,  that  her  dishonor  o'er, 

Old  Sumter  is  our  own  once  more. 


6o  The  Patriot  Martyr. 


THE    PATRIOT   MARTYR. 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN,   President  of  the  United  States,  assassinated 
April,   1865. 

WHAT  mean  these  startling  bursts  of  woe, 
That  echo  our  green  hills  along? 
A  nation's  tears — why  should  they  flow? 

But  yesterday  the  strains  of  song 
And  triumph  pealed  on  every  breeze, 

That  wafted  freshness  o'er  the  earth, 
Bringing,  with  spring,  new  promises 
Of  a  free,  loyal  country's  birth. 


What  mean  they,  the  sad,  drooping  eye? 

The  compress'd  lip?     The  sorrowing  look? 
Hand  clasping  hand  so  silently  ? 

Voice  answering  voice,  with  sobbing  shook? 
Why,  scarcely  hushed,  their  chimes  so  deep, 

Of  joy  upon  the  ravished  ear, 
Wail  out  the  bells  in  tones  that  weep, 

Curdling  the  listener's  blood  to  hear? 


The  Patriot  Martyr.  61 

Those  speaking  drops,  the  tears  that  fall 

Unchecked  from  tender  woman's  eye, 
Nor  shame  the  manliest  cheek  of  all, 

Flow,  that  a  friend  so  loved  should  die — 
While  black-draped  flag  at  half-mast  hung, 

Gives  token  of  a  people's  grief. 
And  muffled  bells,  with  mournful  tongue, 

Toll  for  the  Nation's  honored  Chief. 


What,  though  when  household  forms  decay, 

The  thorns  of  anguish  keener  press, 
Revealing  in  the  torturing  ray 

To  every  heart  its  bitterness, 
Yet,  from  stern  Death's  remorseless  bow, 

Never  before  was  arrow  sent 
Like  this,  so  fraught  with  wide-spread  woe, 

Which  martyred  our  loved  President. 


Loved  by  the  good  and  true,  his  fame 

Enshrines  itself  in  every  heart 
Where  honor's  uncorrupted  name 

In  simple  freshness  shares  a  part — 
Loved  by  the  slave,  whose  stifled  prayer 

Came  sighing  up  for  liberty, 
And  pleading,  gained  assurance  there, 

From  one  great'  soul  that  he  was  free. 

6 


62  The  Patriot  Martyr. 

Loved  by  the  soldier — witness  him 

Whose  grateful  voice  was  upward  sent 
From  battle-field,  with  eye  grown  dim 

In  death,  "God  bless  the  President,"— 
Loved  most  by  those  who  knew  him  best, 

And  winning  hearts  where'er  he  moved, 
His  eulogy  in  loyal  breast, 

"We  feared  him  not,  we  only  loved." 


With  him  our  cherished  visions  fell, 

We  trusted  that  it  had  been  he 
Who  should  redeem  our  Israel, 

And  set  us  first  among  the  free — 
But  in  His  sight  who  knoweth   best, 

His  life-work  has  been  fully  done, 
And  to  the  Father's  promised  rest, 

We  yield  our  Nation's  noblest  one. 


Eyes  dimmed  with  tears  are  raised  to  Heaven, 

Hands  wrung  in  anguish  lifted  up, 
Hearts  bleeding,  and  with  terror  riven, 

Anchor  on  high  their  only  hope, 
That  He,  by  whose  permission,  comes 

Sorrow  and   joy  on  either  hand, 
Wijl  pilot  safely  through  the  storm 

To  peaceful  port,  our  stricken  land. 


A     000  096  263     9 


